


The First Kiss

by Frau_Lolka



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-25 14:22:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3813742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frau_Lolka/pseuds/Frau_Lolka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wenches run away sometimes. But you've never done. And never will. Never.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Kiss

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shugister](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shugister/gifts).



> Thanks to [Vemoro](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vemoro/pseuds/Vemoro) for translating [the text](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3813880) .  
> Thanks to [Elnarmo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Elnarmo/pseuds/Elnarmo) and [Lady_Snark](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Snark) for beting.  
> Thanks to [Shugister](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Shugister/pseuds/Shugister) for idea and arts.

 

 

The shrill bark of my dogs has broken the muffled silence of the autumn forest.  
Good girls, they’ve found you.

I go to the barking. There is no need to hurry; my girls wouldn’t let you flee.  
They’re happy, my sillies.  
It’s only a game for them. It thrills them and awakens their hunting instincts. And for me it's also a game. But not for you. And the longer you’re waiting, the better would be.

Wenches run away sometimes. But you've never done. And never will. Never.

I can’t see you through the high branches. Only quick shadows are flashing between the trees. My girls love you.

Sometimes when I am awake in the night, I come to the kennel and just watch my bitches sleeping huddled around you.  
They put down their heads on your feet, sticked noses under your armpits, crossing their heavy paws on your body. Your smell doesn’t disturb them though people turn up their noses from you.

Your smell is good for them, and for me too.

I’m striding to the clearing and my boot is drowning into a thick brown moss. “Winter is coming” — comes a sudden thought. The first cold winds have started blowing. The first leaves have turned yellow. The forest air is clean; it smells like fusty leaves and autumn. No birds are singing. There is only one sound — the sound of baying.

The girls are jumping happily under the tree where you’re lying between the roots, face hidden in the moss. You’ve probably fallen. And now you are afraid to get on your feet. Or maybe you cannot?

“Stand up,” I say quietly.

You lean on your hands, pull your feet to the body, and try to raise. You are getting up slowly, with a drooped head. I can see your sharp shoulder-blades moving under the thin cloth of your shirt. I see you panting. In your white hair I see dirt, dry leaves, thin needles of the sentinel tree.

“Come to me.”

You are trembling from head to foot. You are slouching and trying to shrink your head into your shoulders, but you move on and then stop still a few steps away from me.  
You stand silently, looking at the ground.

“Closer.”

You are making one step forward.

“Closer.”

You are so close now. So close that I can hear your heart pounding. So close that I can feel your breath on my skin. But you are careful not to touch me. You never touch me without my order.

The girls are leaping around; they are yelping and nipping the edges of your clothes. They are bored. They want to run again. They want to catch their prey. But I've already caught you.

“Look at me!”  
I am clasping your chin.

Your eyes are lifting up slowly. You don’t want to look at me. You're afraid to look at me. Yet you follow my order.  
Your dark gray eyes are so beautiful. Once they looked so proudly and bravely. Then pride turned into confusion. Then anger. Then fear.  
But now they are filled with obedience.

“Who are you?”

“Your Reek, my lord”.

It’s so sweet to hear these words coming from your lips. They’ve lost their fine shape when the hammer smashed your white teeth.  
I’m touching your mouth with my fingers. Your lips are so dry and chapped. They look much better now.

You were handsome before; raven-black locks, a noble profile, perfect lines of a dusky narrow face.  
But the face I see now is my creation. I made it with my own hands. I’ve made your hair snowy; I’ve put the dent on your cheek-bone and the white strokes of scars on your skin.

I’m releasing your head, and again you’re looking down at the curly moss and wild berries under your feet. So beautiful, so docile.  
I want to hit you. I want to make you scream. I want to hear your moans.

“Kiss me,” I’m whispering.

You didn’t expect this. You glance at me with astonished eyes, and then turn them down once more.  
Yes, I’ve given you all sorts of orders. But not like this one.

You're shivering. You’re covering your eyes with long dark lashes and your lips are gently reaching my face.  
I’m not moving.

Yourself. Do it all by yourself.  
You are touching me slightly.

I’m hardly controlling myself not to pounce on you, not to dig into your hot wet mouth, not to throw you down on the damp moss.  
You're covering my lips with yours and shyly pushing your tongue into my mouth. I’m biting it slightly, and you understand what’ll happen next.

I’m grasping you, clasping your hands behind your back, and I’m clenching you strongly, making you blow the air from your lungs.

You are mine.  
I can hear your heart pounding wildly.

You are mine.  
You are kissing me gently, biting slightly my lower lip.

You are mine.  
I’m wiping a tear that’s running down your cheek.


End file.
